Briana's body went entirely limp, sliding down Clark's chest.

Clark's arm shot out instinctively, his large hand gripping her waist to keep her from hitting the wet asphalt. His jaw tightened as he felt the warm, wet smear of blood and rain transfer onto the expensive wool of his heavy trench coat.

Jairo, standing by the driver's side, took a step forward to take the girl off his boss's hands. But he stopped short.

Briana's fingers, slick with rain and blood, were tangled into the dark silk tie at Clark's chest. The knot had been pulled askew during her collision with him. Even in unconsciousness, her grip was locked tight, her knuckles white.

Clark looked down. The sudden, persistent pressure against his throat made him freeze.

He stared at her pale, rain-streaked face. In her semi-conscious state, Briana let out a soft, pained whimper. It was a specific, broken sound. A sound Imogen used to make when she had nightmares.

Clark's entire body went rigid. The muscles in his arms locked. His dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a flash of absolute disbelief breaking through his icy exterior.

Without a word, he ripped off his heavy, blood-smeared trench coat and wrapped it tightly around her, completely shielding her from the rain and any prying eyes. Only then did he reach up and forcibly pry her stiff fingers from his tie, one by one. As the fabric came free, he saw the dark stain of her blood had seeped through the wool of his coat and bloomed against the chest of his bespoke suit jacket beneath.

Jairo watched in stunned silence but quickly pulled open the rear door. Clark ducked inside, pulling the unconscious girl onto the leather seat beside him.

The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the roar of the storm. The sudden blast of the car's heater made Briana's body violently shudder.

Her heavy eyelids fluttered open. The world was blurry, but it quickly focused on the sharp, unforgiving line of Clark's jaw. The tension in her muscles uncoiled slightly. She was safe. For now.

The heat in the cabin was stifling. Clark reached up and impatiently yanked his tie loose, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

As the fabric parted, the sharp, masculine lines of his collarbone were exposed. The faint, rhythmic pulse at the base of his throat caught her attention. It was a hypnotic, steady beat of life in a night that had been filled with nothing but death.

Briana's pupils dilated so fast her eyes physically ached. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest heaved. That pulse. That exact spot at the hollow of his throat. Something buried deep in her fractured memory surged up—a flash of sunlight through a bedroom window, her lips brushing that exact place on his skin in another life. Before she could stop herself, her bloody, trembling fingers reached out, inexplicably drawn to the radiating warmth of his skin, a desperate instinct to anchor herself to the most powerful presence in the room.

"Don't touch him," Jairo's voice barked from the driver's seat, sharp as a whip.

Briana flinched, snatching her hand back.

Clark's head snapped toward her. His eyes, previously clouded with a strange, unguarded vulnerability, were now pitch black and lethal. He had seen exactly where her fingers had been reaching—the place no one touched. The place he only ever allowed one woman to kiss.

No stranger would reach for that exact spot. No one.

His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw in a bruising grip.

Pain flared in her face, snapping her fully awake. She stared into his eyes, her stomach dropping into an endless void of ice.

"What is your name?" Clark demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in the small space.

Briana's brain fired on all cylinders. If he knew she was Imogen, he would know she was a freak. A ghost in a stranger's body.

She forced her eyes to well up with tears. She let her lower lip tremble. "Briana," she choked out, making her voice sound small and pathetic.

The name hung in the air.

The dangerous intensity in Clark's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a disgust so profound it made Briana's chest physically ache.

He released her jaw as if her skin burned him. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped her blood off his fingers.

"Drop her at the diner on the next block. Have a detail keep eyes on her," Clark ordered Jairo, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Panic seized Briana. She couldn't lose him. He was the most powerful man in the country. He was her only weapon against Kathleen.

She lunged forward, her bloody hands grabbing his sleeve. "Please! They'll kill me!"

Clark ripped his arm away. "Don't push your luck." The temperature in the car plummeted.

Briana instantly changed tactics. She shrank back, pulling her knees to her chest, curling into a tight, trembling ball against the leather door. She let out a soft, pathetic sob, playing the role of a broken, abused street rat to perfection.

It was a cheap act, but her eyes—wide, stubborn, and terrified—locked onto his. Clark looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, visibly irritated by the strange pull he felt toward those eyes.

The Maybach glided to a stop at a desolate intersection in downtown LA. The locks clicked open. The freezing wind howled into the cabin.

Briana knew when to retreat. She swallowed her pride, whispered a trembling "Thank you," and dragged her throbbing ankle out of the car.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her.

The second the Maybach pulled away, the pathetic fear vanished from Briana's face. Her expression hardened into cold, calculating stone.

Inside the car, Clark stared at her shrinking figure in the rearview mirror. "Run a full background check on her," he ordered Jairo.

Briana stood under the dripping awning of a closed shop. The wind bit through her wet clothes. She needed a safe place to think.

She turned her head and saw the neon sign of a cheap, 24-hour diner glowing through the rain. She pushed through the greasy glass doors.

The cashier glared at her bloody, soaked appearance. Briana ignored him, limping straight to the darkest booth in the back corner, her mind already spinning a web.

The diner smelled of rancid frying oil and burnt coffee.

Briana slid into the cracked vinyl booth. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to press them flat against the sticky table. She dug into the pocket of her wet jeans. Her fingers brushed past the cheap, cracked-screen smartphone that had belonged to this body's previous owner—dead battery, useless until she could find a charger—and closed around a crumpled, blood-stained twenty-dollar bill.

A heavy-set waiter approached, his nose wrinkling at the sight of her. Briana slid the bill across the table.

"I need to borrow your tablet," she said, her voice raspy. "Just for five minutes."

The waiter eyed the blood, then the money. Greed won. He pulled a cracked iPad from his apron and shoved it toward her.

Briana wiped her bloody fingers on a napkin. She connected to the diner's unsecured Wi-Fi and opened the browser.

Her fingertips hovered over the glass screen. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. She typed in the name: Imogen Montgomery.

The loading icon spun. Every second felt like glass grinding against her nerves. She prayed her parents were safe.

The page loaded. The top headline felt like a physical punch to her gut.

Two-Year Anniversary of Montgomery Heiress's Tragic Drowning.

She clicked the article. A massive photo filled the screen. It was her cousin, Kathleen, dressed in custom black couture, weeping beautifully at a memorial service.

Rage, hot and blinding, surged through Briana's veins. Her knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the edges of the tablet.

She scrolled down frantically, searching for any mention of her parents.

She found a financial piece from six months ago. Montgomery Couple Steps Down Due to Severe Grief. Niece Kathleen Johnston Assumes Full Control of Montgomery Group.

The article mentioned her parents had retired to a private, highly secure sanatorium in Switzerland, refusing all visitors.

Briana stopped breathing. Her lungs seized. Sanatorium? It was a prison. Kathleen had locked them away to steal the company.

She opened a new tab and pulled up Kathleen's social media. The screen exploded with photos of Kathleen dripping in Montgomery diamonds, attending galas, drinking champagne on yachts.

The most recent photo was posted yesterday. Kathleen was standing in front of the massive iron gates of the Ellis Manor. The caption read: Looking forward to the future. The comments were flooded with congratulations on her upcoming engagement to Clark Ellis.

A wave of nausea hit Briana so hard she gagged. The betrayal tasted like battery acid in her mouth.

She slammed the tablet face-down onto the table. The loud smack echoed in the quiet diner.

The waiter jumped. "Hey! Break it and you buy it, psycho!" he yelled, marching over.

Briana slowly lifted her head. She locked eyes with the waiter. The sheer, murderous intent radiating from her gaze made the man stop dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face, and he quickly backed away.

Briana took a deep, shuddering breath. She had nothing. No money, no identity, no power. If she went after Kathleen now, she would be crushed like an insect.

She needed a weapon. A weapon so terrifying that Kathleen would beg for mercy.

Clark Ellis's cold, ruthless face flashed in her mind. A crazy, desperate plan began to form in her head.

She handed the tablet back to the waiter and ordered a black coffee. The bitter liquid burned its way down her throat, grounding her.

She grabbed a pen from the table and pulled a napkin toward her. She began writing down the debts Doyle owed, the names of the men chasing her, and the timeline of Kathleen's takeover.

The bell above the diner door jingled.

Three men in leather jackets walked in. They smelled of cheap beer and weed. Their eyes scanned the room and locked onto Briana sitting alone in the corner.

They swaggered over. The leader, a guy with a neck tattoo, leaned over her table. He reached out to grab her chin. "Rough night, sweetheart?"

Briana didn't even look up. Her hand shot out. She drove the ballpoint pen straight down into the back of his hand, pinning it to the table.

The man screamed, a wet, tearing sound, and yanked his hand back. Blood spurted onto the napkin.

The other two men cursed, reaching into their jackets for switchblades.

Suddenly, blinding high beams flooded the diner windows. Two black Range Rovers slammed into park right outside the glass doors.

Four men in immaculate black suits stepped out and pushed into the diner. The lead security guard didn't say a word. He simply stepped forward and let his suit jacket fall open, revealing the cold, black steel of a handgun holstered snugly under his arm. The thugs' bravado vanished instantly. They stumbled backward, their faces draining of color, and scrambled out the back door in sheer terror.

The lead security guard walked up to Briana's booth. He didn't look at the blood on the table. "Mr. Ellis wants to see you."

Briana looked down at her napkin, a cold, sharp smile stretching across her lips. She stood up and walked out into the rain.

The Range Rover pulled into the private alley behind a three-Michelin-star restaurant.

A bodyguard escorted Briana through the heavy steel back doors, leading her down a hallway lined with thick, sound-absorbing velvet carpets.

He pushed open a massive oak door. Inside the private dining room, low cello music played. Clark sat at the head of a long, black walnut table, slowly swirling a glass of dark red wine.

Briana intentionally dragged her feet, emphasizing her limp as she walked into the room. She kept her shoulders hunched, playing the terrified victim.

Clark didn't even look up. He picked up a thick manila envelope and tossed it onto the table. It hit the wood with a heavy smack.

Briana stopped. She stared at the envelope, her heart beating a rapid rhythm against her ribs. She calculated exactly how much he could have found out in an hour.

Clark tilted his chin toward the file. "Open it."

Briana bit her lower lip, letting her hand tremble as she reached out. She unwound the string and pulled out the papers.

The first page was a copy of Doyle's gambling debts from an underground casino. Attached to it was the transaction record of Doyle selling her to Preston for ten thousand dollars.

Briana forced her pupils to dilate. She let the tears spill over her lashes. Her shoulders began to shake violently.

She clutched the papers to her chest, her knees buckling. She collapsed into the chair, letting out a stifled, agonizing sob.

Clark watched her performance with dead, cold eyes. "You stabbed a man in the shoulder with broken glass and nearly severed his artery," he stated, his voice devoid of any pity.

The lie was exposed. Briana's crying stopped instantly. She lowered the papers. She looked up at him, the fake tears gone, replaced by the cornered, feral glare of a trapped animal.

Before she could speak, her stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl.

The sound shattered the heavy tension in the room. Briana's face flushed hot red. She dropped the file and stared directly at the steaming plate of Beef Wellington sitting in the center of the table.

Clark let out a short, humorless scoff. He gestured to the food. "Eat."

Briana didn't hesitate. She grabbed a fork and knife and tore into the expensive meat. She shoved huge pieces into her mouth, chewing with her mouth open, letting the rich gravy smear across her chin.

She ate like a starving dog. It was repulsive. It completely shattered any lingering illusion Clark might have had that this girl shared anything in common with the elegant, refined Imogen.

Clark watched her, a flicker of cold disappointment settling in his eyes. The absurd hope that had sparked in the car was irrational. This girl's desperation was raw, her vulgarity a harsh product of her environment. Whatever fleeting resemblance he had imagined was just that-a phantom conjured by his own mind. He would use her as a pawn, and when he was done, he would discard her. The mystery of her familiar gaze could wait.

Briana swallowed the last piece of meat. She grabbed a glass of lemon water and downed it in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the grease further.

Her eyes were now crystal clear and sharp.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "I need your protection."

Clark leaned back in his chair, looking at her like she was a joke. "And why would I protect a slum girl with a murder charge hanging over her head?"

Briana's hands gripped the edge of the table. "Because you are being suffocated by your family's pressure to marry."

She stated the name of the socialite he was supposed to meet tonight-a detail she had deduced from her past life. She knew the Ellis matriarch's obsessive habits; the old woman always scheduled Clark's mandatory dates on the last Friday of the month, and she had caught a fleeting glimpse of a text notification flashing on Clark's phone screen earlier that confirmed the target.

The temperature in the room plummeted. Clark's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. Murderous intent rolled off him in waves.

Briana fought the urge to shrink back. Her palms were sweating, but she held his gaze. "I can be your perfect shield. I'll get rid of any woman you don't want to deal with."

She leaned closer. "Keep me alive, and I'll sign whatever contract you want. I'll be your most obedient dog."

Clark stared at her. His long fingers began to tap rhythmically against the armrest of his chair. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Suddenly, Clark's phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from his grandmother, demanding to know why he was late for his date.

A flash of pure annoyance crossed Clark's face. He flipped the phone face down. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cruel smirk.

"One month," Clark said, his voice like cracking ice. "You have a one-month trial. Starting tonight. You will get rid of the woman waiting for me."

Briana's lungs finally expanded. She stood up, grabbed the sides of her filthy jeans, and did a mocking, exaggerated curtsy. "Consider it done."